Afternoon
by TheNewIdea
Summary: Our lives in many ways are like fireworks. We are here for only a few moments, and in those few moments we experience everything there is to experience. We find happiness, love, we believe, and then for no particular reason at all, we die, our lives nothing but a spectacle for other people's amusement.


Walking out of the cemetery Chip, his head cast down deep in thought, his eyes shifting as his brain contemplated the meaning of the sunlight that had washed over him, made his way towards Grover's Lot, a third neighborhood behind the graveyard that was the home of the lesser denizens of the Disney community.

As he made his way around the graveyard, heading for the low income houses, Chip wondered why there wasn't a single police station to be found for the three connected communities that jointly made up what was known as Toon Town. There was Horace's detective agency, but that was hardly a substitute for a police station with competent officers, jail cells to accommodate prisoners, and an actual justice system. Chip knew that the Rescue Rangers didn't technically count as a police force either, since they were more on the lines of corporation conspiracies, small time jewel thievery, or other isolated incidents that warranted the use of private investigators. Never once did Chip, or Dale for that matter, tackle anything in relation to traffic, homicide, burglary, arson, or high profile vice cases like that of a police force, and this fact made Chip both sad and inferior.

By the time Chip made it to the neighborhood he had seen three stop signs, all with graffiti, two broken street lights, and four street corner drug dealers. He had half a mind to arrest them and take them to headquarters, but then he remembered that technically he was retired, that headquarters no longer existed, and that, when he had work, he only dealt with the local official businesses, so there was really nothing Chip could about it. Crossing the street, Chip went to the closest door from the corner and knocked.

The door opened revealing a half dressed Basil, formerly of Baker Street. He was wearing a bathrobe and nothing else, for unlike most mice, Basil did not believe in a humanized mouse community, and so, did not believe in clothes, especially when it came to pants. Chip did not mind this, not because he had a similar philosophy, but because he simply lacked the need due to his respective universe.

"Chip old boy!" Basil said excitedly, "How are things in the well-to-do? Good I hope?"

Chip shrugged, "They're as good as they can be Basil. Not perfect, but not great."

"I understand" Basil continued, "Please come in, come in!"

The living room was easily the dirtiest place Chip had been in, which was saying something considering Dale, who had bad cleaning habits. Food and random garbage was scattered everywhere, the couch completely invisible, instead taking up the space was a mountain of never-ending dirty clothes. Chip wondered why Basil even bothered to ask him inside with the house in such a state, but then he remembered where he was and that no matter which house he had knocked on, he would have been in similar circumstances.

"I see you wasted no time cleaning up for me" Chip declared knowingly, "I don't think I've ever seen that couch."

Basil laughed.

"Trust me boy" he said, "It's there. I reached it a couple times, but the mountain always comes back and it's always bigger."

Chip was amazed that Basil lived alone with the mountain of clothes that were never washed. One would think that Basil had forty-five kids living with him and he was simply falling behind on laundry and housekeeping, but sadly, this was not the case. At the same time Chip was not surprised either, for Basil rarely, if ever, and only then for food, left the house, much preferring the quietness and solitude of his basement, in which he kept his lab.

Walking through the kitchen stopping at the door to the basement, Basil stared curiously at Chip, taking off the chipmunk's fedora and inspecting it.

"You're still wearing this thing Indy?" Basil asked, "Every time I see you it's always in that hat and jacket, do you not have a wardrobe?"

Chip huffed and snatched his fedora back, placing it on his head with a firm hand.

"I like it" Chip defended, "It reminds of who I am. Who knows, I might start the Rangers up again."

Basil shook his head pitifully and sighed, for if there was one thing Chip went constantly on about, when he decided to talk to people, it was the possibility of restarting the Rescue Rangers.

"Not with that rubbish again Indy" Basil exclaimed, slapping his face with his paw in annoyance, "You've been going about that ever since Dale passed, let it go, it's not going to happen."

"Just like you never cleaning house is going to happen?" Chip answered sarcastically, "Seriously either rehire that maid to help or throw this shit out before someone files a complaint."

Basil rolled his eyes and groaned, for he hated it when legalities were brought into situations, it made things more complicated than they needed to be.

"Here we go again" Basil said, shouting as he opened the basement door and turned on the lights, "I told you I fired that wench because she insulted my work, what's so hard to understand about that?"

Chip stopped on his way down, Basil's statement reminded him of Gadget. The way she walked in the moonlight; how she danced to music; her smile, which never seemed to fade; and especially the way she said Indy, as if her very voice was made of honeycomb and sugar.

"Watch your words Basil" Chip said warningly, "Remember, 95% of the time you find that you're the problem."

Basil raised his eyebrows and huffed, "I'm the one with the problem?" he said exasperating, "If you would have seen this woman you would have thought the same Indy. On top of that she was a whore, she would bring some bloke over wanting to pork in the bloody kitchen! Do you have any idea what that's like?"

Chip shook his head and made his way towards the top of the staircase.

"Why should you care what your help does in her spare time when you can barely keep a respectable house?" Chip asked as he straightened his jacket, "Maybe if you spent more time with people and less on your own you'd see yourself a little better Basil."

Basil moved a few steps up, concern and slightly hurt by Chip's words.

"What are you saying?" Basil asked, "That I'm different? That I'm special because I'm not like everybody else?"

"I'm saying you're pathetic" Chip replied bluntly, "Call the agency, get yourself a housekeeper and change your goddamn attitude, just because they leave you doesn't make them bitches, whores, wenches, skanks, or whatever derogatory sexist term you want to use to describe them. It makes them smart, something that you used to be."

Chip made his way to the front door, Basil made his way up the stairs, running after him.

"Come on Indy" Basil exclaimed, "Don't do this."

Basil walked over to the kitchen counter, returning with a cup of tea.

"Look" Basil said with a hint of desperation, "I made tea!"

The front door slammed shut, the house grew silent. The air became rank and stale. Basil sighed, and then, for no reason at all, he cried.

Leaving Basil's house, Chip made his way down the street, further into the neighborhood. He didn't really have a particular destination, only that he move somewhere where things made sense. Stopping on the next street corner, Chip looked left and right for about the hundredth time that day he saw something that he never thought he would see.

Across the street was Scrooge McDuck. He was dressed in a plaid blue button up shirt and decent blue jeans, in his hands was a New International Bible, it was worn, the pages dog eared and faded slightly from the sun, but still legible. Scrooge sat on a relatively high bar stool and began to read aloud the Word as if he were giving a great sermon to an attentive congregation. The street, save for Chip, was empty and seemingly devoid of life, for no one in the neighborhood bothered with work, and if they did, they were night shift, minimum wage workers, and were most likely sleeping.

"_Nice try Scrooge"_ Chip thought to himself, _"But you're not fooling anyone, everyone knows that God is just a waste of time, a figment of imagination that people use to answer complicated questions in good times and to have something to blame for their woes when things get rough. Give it up."_

Chip slowly crossed the street, avoiding Scrooge and his preaching, for he had no wish to receive a lecture on faith or the afterlife, the only thing that Chip was seeking was the anonymity he had earlier, as if the sun overhead had somehow made him visible to the world and the world visible to him in turn. Chip thought about things that he didn't normally think about, he thought about his life and where it would go from here, if he would ever settle down, if he would ever have a stable job, if he would ever find happiness, or if lacking these things, if he would die, and in the event, if it would be quiet, unnoticeable, and remembered or something to be seen and quickly forgotten about.

"_Our lives in many ways are like fireworks"_ Chip continued, still thinking, _"We are here for only a few moments, and in those few moments we experience everything there is to experience. We find happiness, love, we believe, and then for no particular reason at all, we die, our lives nothing but a spectacle for other people's amusement."_

Eventually Chip found himself inside a biker bar on the outskirts of town. It was a place for the rough, tough, and deviant, the outlaws and the vagabonds. A perfect place for vigilantes and aspiring heroes to have a moment of clarity, to develop a backstory, or simply to have an angst filled night of alcohol without being judged. It was the kind of bar for people who believed that life was perhaps the shittiest deal one could get and upon finding that there was nothing better, settled for what they could.

The bartender of the establishment was Pete. He was smoking a cigar, his teeth were stained due to a lack of dental hygiene. He was wearing suspenders with no shirt, a mustard stain on his chest that he didn't bother to clean was clearly visible, the faint orange light above the bar making it more noticeable than it would have been otherwise. Walking up to the bar and clambering up to the bar stool, Chip looked around casually and rapped on the bar, catching Pete's attention.

"What can I do for yah?" Pete asked, resting his right arm on the counter as he wiped his forehead with a bar rag.

"Give me something that will make me forgot what day it is" Chip replied.

Pete raised his eyebrows and laughed, glancing towards the clock on the wall.

"Sorry Dale" Pete declared, "I can't sell hard liquor 'til six."

Chip shook his head. Taking off his fedora and setting it on the counter Chip glared at Pete, giving him the death stare.

"What?" Pete asked, confused by Chip's behavior.

Chip jumped on the counter and grabbed Pete's suspenders, bringing him down to his level, he then spat in his face.

"I'm Chip" Chip said, gritting his teeth, "Dale's dead remember? Or have you forgotten like everybody else?"

Pete calmly grabbed Chip and pulled him off, setting him back on his stool. Pete then walked over to the other side of the bar and reached down, pulling out a bottle of Maker's Mark, it was in a vintage bottle and, as a result, unopened. Without a second thought Pete opened the bottle, poured a full shot glass and handed it to Chip.

"To Dale" Pete declared, "May he find rest, wherever he is."

Chip nodded and took the first shot, which was the equivalent of half a standard glass in proportion to his size. Staggering a bit and shaking his head, Chip held up his hand, motioning for another one. Pete sighed, took the shot glass, and refilled it.

"How's Gadget?" Pete asked, trying to make conversation despite asking all the wrong questions, "Have you talked to her lately?"

Chip shook his head in disagreement.

"I haven't seen her since the Rangers disbanded" Chip answered, "I hope wherever she is she's happy. Someone has to be, might as well be her."

Pete laughed, "What makes you say that?" he continued, "Are you unhappy?"

Chip downed the second shot and let out a slight burp. He didn't really want to answer Pete's question, for the answer was obvious and didn't need to be explained. Chip pulled out what money he had, which wasn't much, and jumped off the stool. Without another word, Chip made his way towards the door into the afternoon sun, he didn't really know where he was going and he didn't really care, the only thing he knew was that he couldn't be in one place for long, he had to keep moving, somewhere, anywhere, but where he was.


End file.
